


Shared Path

by LightofEvolution



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-01 16:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/pseuds/LightofEvolution
Summary: After using an ancient bonding spell to break out of Azkaban, Hermione and Draco now have to face new challenges. And the greatest of them is probably to deal with their relationship. Sequel to Shared Hell. EWE.





	1. Over the Hills and Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hello...I'm a bit excited and anxious here. This is the sequel to my story Shared Hell, and it's the first time for me to write a sequel, so I hope I won't disappoint you. The atmosphere is slighty different, but it's a different story, after all. It starts where Shared Hell left off, so maybe it makes sense to look into that again.
> 
> Without MrBenzedrine89 (who is also my stellar beta) and Kyonomiko this story wouldn't be possible. They took my constant doubting and whining with a stride and assured me again and again that this isn't totally hippogriff shit. Also, a huge thank you to the Cabin Crew for listening to me, especially for LaBelladoneX and her helpful and kind advice about Ireland.
> 
> Disclaimer: To my utter surprise, I don't own the Potterverse. And my writing is too much fun to make money with it.

“Have you ever been here?” Hermione asks Draco, taking in the cottage in front of her in wonder and a bit of suspicion. 

 

“Yes, once. Two weeks directly after the Final Battle.” His voice is quiet, even though they’re alone with only the wind and the sea as company. “Mother sent me here after I had a complete break-down one night. She told Father something vague about me having to forget. The first week, I was drunk and high, but then I found my sanity again. At least enough to appear ‘normal’.”

 

Without really reacting to the exposure of how the Second War had damaged him, she says, “So that’s how you knew where to Apparate.”

 

Draco hums his acquiescence and lets Hermione take in the sight in front of her.  For once, Narcissa Malfoy has foregone all the glory and pomp the Malfoys were so well-known for - her cottage is really only a simple, cozy, inconspicuous cottage. Whitewashed stones and a deep roof on the outside, it has a beautiful view down to the shore and the water. The air, despite the wind, is heavy with the scent of herbs, probably from a garden inside the walls encompassing the cottage. A beautiful, quiet place whose magic only grows apparent when Draco steps forward, crossing over invisible wards that shimmer for a second upon the contact. 

 

“Won’t the wards, I don’t know, reject me?” Hermione asks. 

 

“You’re such a muggleborn.” 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clearly not an insult, but the irritation must be apparent on her face, because he immediately tries to appease her. 

 

“It means that, sometimes, it makes a difference. You’re a true genius. You know how all the spells work, and you can recite the most complicated potion recipes half-asleep, but you have never learned to accept the magic as something...fluid. Something almost sentient.” Before she can communicate her thoughts, he continues, “The magic in these wards doesn’t care for a certificate or a rule. It recognizes the blood running through my veins: the magical signature of the Black family.” For the first time since they met in Azkaban, he looks calm. In control. And it makes her shiver because of reasons she doesn’t want to ponder now. 

 

“But I’m not a Black - not even a Malfoy,” she interjects. He chuckles. 

 

“The magic doesn't care. It recognizes my Black lineage. And it acknowledges our magical cores merging,  _ interlacing _ . Even when the connection isn’t stable yet.”

 

Decidedly skipping the stability of their relationship, she wants to know,  “So, I’m not going to be burnt or something?” She still eyes the barrier skeptically, not trusting this ancient magic.

 

His fingers run through the curtain of magic, making sparks fly. “No. Because of the...recent status of our bond, it might tickle a bit.” 

 

Breathing deeply, she steps though the wards. A flicker of mischievousness or insanity makes her cringe and cry out when her skin touches the magical border. 

“Hermione!” Draco jumps forward and pulls her towards him. His big, grey eyes, shallow from the exhaustive journey they have both been through, check for damage.

 

Giggling, she admits, “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” 

 

The breath he releases is shaky. Only then she notices he has been frightened for a moment. He frowns, and she can’t help but feel…scolded? “Right. Too early for Weasley-category jokes, I suppose.”

 

* * *

Draco immediately disappears for the shower, leaving Hermione to inspect the small house. Three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a kitchen and the surprisingly spacious living room downstairs - cozy, functional furniture everywhere, though in a perfect shape. So much more common than what she has expected from Narcissa Malfoy.

 

The living room has a beautiful view into the garden behind the house. Hermione looks at the plants growing there, and isn’t surprised when she discovers that more than the half of them are plants with magical use. Even in the shadow of the fruit trees - apples, prunes, pears, all old varieties if she is right - grow useful stuff: nightshade, henbane, dittany, sage, even knotgrass.

 

She hears Draco coming down the staircase, carrying a fresh scent with him - a drastic contrast to her own stench. “Enjoying the scenery?” 

 

“Somewhat. Your mother really is a Slytherin, isn’t she?” 

 

“Because she had a plan B by owning this cottage?” 

 

Smiling, she tilts her head towards the garden. “Because you you could brew seventy-five percent of the common, deadly potions with the fruits and plants in this garden.” 

 

“Or have a very enjoyable high,” he says after looking outside. “I guess you can’t be friends with a brilliant potion master like Severus Snape without picking up a thing or two.” 

 

“The house and the garden appear looked after.” 

 

“I suppose Mother has assigned one of her private elves attend to this.” He looks at her. Or at least, that’s how it feels, for her eyes remain fixed on the garden view. She can’t pinpoint what makes her so reluctant to look at him. “I found some clothes that should fit you and put on after a bath.” 

 

“Are you telling me I smell?” 

 

A crooked smile. “I found a brush, too.” 

 

She looks at him then. After a shower and a shave, he looks...different. Reminding her more of their school days than of the past hours. 

 

“Go, get into the bath I’ve run I’m preparing us something to eat.” 

 

No. Draco Malfoy isn’t the same boy as he was in school. There is a certain softness in his voice, an awareness of her entire being, of her needs now. She can feel it under her skin. In her innermost core. In her magic. 

 

And magic never lies, right?

 

He’s grown. He’s changed. She almost curses out loud - rationally, she’s been aware that Draco is attractive since she has developed an interest in men. But she is a bit spooked that even now, only a few hours after their bonding, the bond whispers into her ear how handsome he is. 

 

With a smile that feels forced, she nods and leaves for the bathroom.

* * *

 

 

The bath is heavenly. Draco must have added something for the water to smell like lavender. She groans in bliss, trying to ignore the way her skin feels too thin over her bones in the warm water once all the dirt and grime is washed away. It takes an eternity to brush through her curls. Some strands are probably unsavable, and she uses small scissor she finds to clip her nails. 

 

The clothes, folded neatly and of the best quality, must have been the most casual thing Draco could find in his mother’s drawers: a silken powder blue blouse, a camisole, a skirt two shades darker in a flowing fabric, almost functional tights, and...she hesitates...a piece of simple, black knickers. 

 

She donns the clothes, and every layer feels more surreal. As if she’s transforming into someone else.

 

Or is she only feeling like herself again? Who is she even? An escapee? A war hero? A warrior? A wife?

 

Despite the chiasmata playing with her mind, the grumbling of her stomach reminds her that Azkaban has kept her barely fed. Just when she closes the bathroom door behind her, what she hears from downstairs makes her stop dead in her tracks. Two voices. One of them Draco’s. Carefully as not to make anyone aware of her, she walks down the stairs, hiding behind a pillar when arriving at the bottom. 

 

“Have you two consummated the marriage yet?” Now that she is closer by, Hermione can identify the voice as Narcissa’s. Even though she’s only had a few encounters with Draco’s mother, those she had are very memorable. What does she want? Did Draco call her?

 

“No.”

 

“Then maybe there’s a way to reverse it.” 

 

“Mother-”

 

“Come on, Draco. Would you think about the consequences of your actions for just one moment? Of what you’re doing to your family with that?” The coldness in the witch’s words makes her angry. 

 

“I don’t care. Where was this ‘family’ when they threw me into Azkaban? In the darkest hours of my life?”

Narcissa starts to talk, but Draco interrupts her forcefully. “ _ Don’t. _ Don’t you  _ dare _ to compare what happened in the war, in Malfoy Manor, to what happened in  _ that _ place. You have  _ no  _ idea.” He pauses, the tension apparent in his voice. Or in his magic? Hermione can’t differentiate, but she knows she’s shivering. “Or maybe you do? Maybe you don’t care?” 

 

Narcissa gasps audibly. “Draco-” 

 

“Hermione was there when you weren’t!” Hermione wants to step in, to tell Draco’s mother to go to Hell, but she’s too overwhelmed to move.

 

“What do you think I could have done?” 

 

“I don’t know! And I’m beyond caring at the moment.” A tense pause follows in which Hermione feels Draco’s anger prickling over her skin. “Look, Mother, I love you. But all I care about is keeping Hermione and me safe.” 

 

“That’s the bond, dear.” 

 

“That’s  _ not _ the bond. That’s a witch and a wizard saving each other’s lives. It’s escaping Hell only to know it isn’t over yet. It’s being used as a tool in a conflict neither of us have any responsibility for causing. It’s my father playing with the big guys and subjecting his own son to a fucking Marriage Law!” Hermione has never heard Draco use this tone before. It is…impressive. Intimidating. _ Powerful _ . 

 

And it makes her feel safe in a way she doesn’t want to ponder. Because Draco stands up to his mother for her, for their decisions, sudden they may be. 

 

A second later, she hears Draco slamming his hand on the table in the living room. Now it’s her turn to gasp because his feelings stretch out, flooding the bond. She had no idea it could feel like that. 

 

She feels… _ everything  _ for a moment, drowning in emotions that aren’t her own. Anger. Fear. Despair. A strange hunger for more.

 

And then, everything goes black. How ironic.

 

* * *

 

She wakes what seems to be a few moments later with Draco leaning over her. 

 

“How-”

 

“Slowly, Hermione.” He reaches around her shoulders and pulls her into an upright position.

 

“She’s coming to.” A female voice. Draco’s mother, she remembers.

 

“She is.” He sounds concerned. “You better go now.” 

 

Even with her barely regaining control of her senses, Draco’s voice sounds cold, repellent. But it’s not directed at her - and that circumstance brings her peace.

 

After Narcissa has left without another word, Hermione and Draco share a simple meal of soup, bread, and some fruits in the living room. Even though there’s a physical distance maintained between them, there’s an undoubtable thread pulling them together. 

 

For the first time in months, maybe years, Hermione feels at peace when she falls asleep in the bedroom next to Draco’s.

 

In a real bed with sheets made of reliable cotton.

 

In a house where she can hear nothing but the sounds of nocturnal insects and the coming and going of the eternal sea.

 

Leaning to the wall where she knew he slept behind, somehow mourning the loss of the direct connection they had through the whole in the wall, the sheer exhaustion of the days behind her forces her to fall into a dreamless sleep.   
  


  
  



	2. Two for Tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my endless appreciation goes to MrBenzedrine89 for proofreading this and Kyonomiko who both believed in this story before I started it.

Of course, a time in prison isn’t simply over. Used to gaining only on a few hours of restless sleep, Hermione wakes up with a start.

 

The first rays of sunlight bathe the room in brightness. But instead of enjoying them, she feels reminded of her cell on the days when the light hadn’t been warm and nurturing, but blinding and piercing through her skull. 

 

Days she has left behind her for good. Probably. Hopefully. 

 

That’s when she feels the wetness on her cheeks. When had she started crying? Is it in cruel remembrance or in relief and joy? She doesn’t know. But before the emotions start to engulf her fully, she swallows them, pushes them aside by sheer will. She has been out of control of her life enough, she decides, and wants to cling on the last bit of it that remains.

 

Entering the kitchen, the witch finds Draco preparing something that seems to be breakfast. 

 

“Good morning,” he greets without turning. Has he heard her? Sensed her?

 

“Morning,” she mumbles.

 

In a somewhat awkward silence, they both sit down and carefully eat their toast. After finishing two with deliciously sweet and bitter orange jam, she’s ready to talk. “Where does this food come from?” 

 

“I suspect the house elves have opened a connection from the Manor’s kitchens and sent it through.”

 

When some years ago this tidbit of information would have fascinated her, she merely stores it away for later use. Instead, she states, “I didn’t even know you knew your way around a kitchen. That might be our rescue, you know? Because I surely don’t.” 

 

He relaxes a bit on her admission. “I hate to disappoint  _ my dear wife _ , but I can only prepare a handful of dishes Tori insisted I learn.” 

 

An inexplicable bout of jealousy floods her. Irrationally, she is fully aware. “I don’t really know her. What kind of person is she?” 

 

Draco smiles, lost in memories, and the jealousy grows. After all, they  _ have _ to come to terms with their connection, and she  _ wouldn’t _ tolerate another woman in her marriage, unintended or not though it might be. She shakes her head once, surprised at her own realization. 

 

“Astoria? You may think Blaise or Theo are my best friends. But in truth, it’s Astoria. Of course, it’s not as glorious as you relationship with Potter or Weasley, but she was there for me, after the war. And she would have sacrificed her own happiness for me.” His voice is soft then, full of melancholy.

 

She knows then that Astoria is to him what Harry is to her. And yet, a certain amount of bitterness remains in the deepest pits of her stomach. “Before I found about her...playing exclusively for the Harpies, so to speak, I expected us to become a comfortable couple. Friendship is a good basis for marriage, isn’t it?” 

 

Hermione snorts, causing Draco to analyse her sharply. “Or for a catastrophe of epic proportions.” 

 

“The Weasel?” he concludes.

 

“Naturally.” 

 

A moment of silence. 

 

“Who was the other one?” 

 

“Huh?” she has no clue what he means with his question.

 

“When we were in...in Azkaban, you told be you’ve had relationships with two purebloods. Who was the other one? Another Weasley? The dragon guy?” 

 

Hermione almost giggles. “What brought that question up, Draco?” 

 

He shrugs. “Merely familiarizing with your life.” This, she can relate to.

 

“Oliver Wood, if you must know.” 

 

Now, there’s no doubt his expression is full of mirth, even with the mug in front of his face. She  _ feels _ it. “You really have a thing for Quidditch players, haven’t you?” 

 

It’s Hermione’s turn to shrug, and then she suggests, “We have a lot of time to spend together here. Maybe you could use a bit of training on a broom on a field nearby? I am fond to watch.” 

 

His mood sombers instantly. “There’s no broom in this house, and we can’t get one. We’re only safe within these wards.” 

 

“For now,” she adds. 

 

“Hermione, our magic-” 

 

“Needs training, I agree. But once we reach its full potential, we-” she insists, before he interrupts her.

 

“-Still can’t prance around outside as if we’re not the escapees we are!” 

 

“What then? Do you plan to stay inside this property for the next year? That way, we just exchanged one prison cell with another.” She realizes then, sometime in their argument, they both have gotten up from their seats and are facing each other now.

 

Draco’s eyes are blazing when he spits, “And you’re certain that’s going to change when, or rather  _ if,  _ we find your little Gryffindor army?”

 

“So you’ve changed the plans you sold me just yesterday? How convenient!” She’s yelling now.

 

“Maybe I simply need to sit down and plan? And not run into the next potential danger after barely escaping the last one!” he accuses.  

 

“You, Draco Malfoy, are the same foul, egoistic  _ coward _ -” Suddenly, an uncomfortable heat washes against her mind. Taken aback, she realizes it’s Draco’s magic, boiling up in shame. The same emotion is reflecting in his eyes, though covered by a mask of anger there. 

 

But his magic can’t lie. 

 

He’s hurt. 

 

Like waves on water, her ire ebbs. He must feel it in their connection because his gaze softens a bit. Before she can apologize, however, he raises his hand.  _ “Don’t. _ ” And with that, he leaves the room for the garden, only stopping to grab a book from a nearby shelf. The door closes not with a slam, but very decisively, and he settles down on the wooden bench next to it, back to the house.

Instead of following him outside, Hermione busies herself in the kitchen at first. Not daring to draw from their bond at the moment, she washes the dishes the muggle way. Like everything, this action astounds her in its normalcy. 

 

How could she have ended up in a cottage in Ireland when, just hours ago, she had expected to die in Azkaban? When, just years ago, she had been tortured on her new husband’s drawing room floor by his demented aunt? When, more than a decade ago, she has been confronted with the alternate life of witchcraft and wizardry?

 

The answer is simple: she is a human. Humans adapt.

 

After finishing the dishes, she too grabs a random book from the bookshelf and sits down on the couch. The next thirty minutes go by with her alternating between reading and observing Draco. He sits very still, only turning the pages in a steady rhythm, while she immerses herself in an interesting compendium of pureblood customs. She’d take deligent notes if she had a pen or a quill. 

 

But her attention span apparently suffered from the imprisonment, and so she gives at some point. 

 

When she opens the door, Draco doesn’t look up. Leaning against the frame, she wants to know, “Are you finished pouting?” 

 

“Are you finished insulting me?” Still not looking up.

 

“I could ask you the same, you know?” 

 

His head tilts. They stare into each other’s faces, both too stubborn to give in. 

 

Two heartbeats. Ten. 

 

“Yes, you could,” he admits. “But I thought we could leave some parts of our history behind us.“

 

“ _ Historia est magistra vitae _ ?” she challenges.

 

“History is life’s teacher if you let yourself be taught.”

 

He’s so smug she starts snorting. “If I remember correctly, you were the second best in most classes. So I guess I should trust your academic achievements this time.” Feeling the argument found a good conclusion, Hermione goes back inside and is about to prepare a tea when suddenly a plain looking owl sweeps in, leaves a package on the kitchen counter, and immediately leaves again.

 

“Do you know this owl?” Her voice is shaky when she addresses Draco, who has followed her inside.

 

“No. But my mother must be the one who sent it. The wards won’t let anyone else’s deliveries in.” 

 

Relief is Hermione’s first reaction; anger upon her own paranoia the next. She should’ve concluded that!

 

“Hermione?” Draco asks, strangely concerned. She surmises he has felt her strong emotions through their bond. 

 

“I’m alright. It’s just…nothing.”

 

He nods in understanding and opens the package then. Without a letter or explanation attached, the two of them have to deduce the meaning of the things Missus Malfoy sends: Unicorn hair, some phoenix feathers, and pulverized dragon heartstring.

 

“My first wand’s core was a dragon heartstring,” Hermione remarks. 

 

Draco points at the carefully wrapped hairs next to the heartstring. “Mine was a unicorn hair.” 

 

“Sparkly,” she says. 

 

“Yours is ironic,” he replies. 

 

“All those substances are wand core materials…” 

 

Draco nods, extracting some other materials from the package. “She wants us to make wands. Clever.”

 

Stroking the phoenix feather, she ponders, “How did your mother even get them?” 

 

“She has supported Ollivander financially after the war-” 

 

“ _ Her _ ?” 

 

“Do you really think my mother would be any less of a Slytherin because she’s the epitome of a pureblood woman? She supported him for the slight possibility that it could be useful at some point. Not every witch has a heart made of Gryffindor-ness and niceties.” His pride of his mother changes into a teasing tilt.

 

“Draco Malfoy, are you flirting with me?” The answer comes as vexing. 

 

He honestly ponders that for a few seconds before shrugging. “What’s this?” He points at one of the remaining options. 

 

“Dragon scales.” She touches the dry material to examine it, and then she feels it. A vibration. Like a bee’s wings fluttering against her skin - and her core. 

 

“Touch them.” In another time and place, she would be surprised at Draco’s instant reaction, but now she simply sees an expression mirroring her own. “You feel it, too?” 

 

“Yes. That’s it. More raw than holding a wand, somehow, but...a bit more direct.” 

 

“Like a not isolated wire.” Hermione doesn’t trust her own emotions enough to analyse the meaning of the fact that their wand cores haven’t only changed, but also become the very same. Like their magic. Like their lives. Like their fates? “Dragon scales...that’s an unusual material,” she continues with difficulty.

 

Draco’s long fingers trace the brittle material. “Today, yes. But back in the days when dragons weren’t limited to the reserves as endangered species, the scales protecting the heart of the dragon were considered even more powerful than the heart, but more difficult to handle for the wandmaker, and often…capricious in their choice of witches and wizards. They simply went out of style with time. Mother must have considered that our magic has changed…”

 

There he is again, this talented and intelligent Draco Hermione can connect with much easier. “Why didn’t she send the outer wooden shell for the wands or a selection of them?” 

 

“You can’t possibly know this, but the access is pretty limited. All the core materials are also used for other purposes, potions, rituals, and such. But the wand wood is strictly guarded nowadays. Even my mother would look suspicious getting a few of them.” He tilts his head, his speech slowing as if he is thinking hard. “Though, there must be something we can use. Mother wouldn’t give us these only to have the wands incomplete…” 

 

Looking outside and letting her thoughts wander, it takes her at least twenty seconds before she realizes something. In her sudden excitment, Hermione slams her hand on the table, causing Draco to flinch. 

 

“Sorry,” she apologizes, and then explains, “Look outside!” She points into the garden. “ _ Malus domestica _ and  _ Prunus spinosa _ …” 

 

“Apple and blackthorn.” 

 

“A bit old-fashioned, but both are wandwoods when groomed properly. I bet your mother didn’t plant them because of their pretty blooms or the fruits. It will take us a bit, but-” 

 

“-We can make our own, unregistered and therefore untraced, wands.” Draco finishes and looks at her. His expression turns serene then. 

 

“What?” she asks, not quite familiar with his positive moods. 

 

“You’re smiling.” His unfaltering gaze makes her blush. A perfectly normal reaction, she tells herself, when being scrutinized by an attractive man. “And I quite like that. I think I should find reasons to make you smile more often.” Giving her a crooked smile, he grabs his books and ventures outside again, leaving behind a woman with shaking knees. 

 

No one has caused such a strong reaction from her with so few words.

 

And that worries her. Because she knows the bond is gaining strength. 

 


	3. An encounter symbolic yet truthful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bear hug for my beta, MrBenzedrine89, who still hasn't labelled me 'hopeless' due to my shit ton of mistakes. She's my hero! Also, a big thank you to LaBelladoneX, my personal Ireland advisor, who provided me with many ideas and sceneries!

 

“Try again.”

 

With a huff, Hermione concentrates on the apple in front of her. “ _ Glacius _ ,” she speaks firmly, drawing from her magic. But the effect is minimal: only the stem takes on a frozen hue.

 

“ _ Again _ ,” Draco demands, observing from behind her.

 

“A tenth time? Draco, it…” She hesitates before she admits her failure. “...it feels as if I have only access to my magic when you touch me. It feels as if it’s slipping through my fingers.” Instead of taunting her, the blond only nods in understanding.

 

He takes one more step to bridge the gap between them. “Turn back around.” As she does, Hermione feels Draco’s hands settling on her waist, the warmth immediately seeping from his skin through the fabric of the thin jumper she wears. It feels _ too good  _ to her.

 

All the other times, he keeps his hands on her shoulders in their training. He doesn’t caress her or touches her intimately, he simply anchors her. Her and her magic.  _ Their _ magic. Because she can feel their magic merging the moment they touch.

 

“Again.” His voice comes from such a close proximity that she can feel his breath against her hair. 

 

Her magic is excited then, easily coming forth on her command and prickling on her fingers. “ _ Glacius _ .” The apple turns into a globe of ice in mere seconds.

 

“Perfect,” Draco praises, and she almost purrs. His hands haven’t left her waist, and now she feels him tightening his grip, the tips of his fingers splaying over her abdomen. The shiver she feels as a result resonates in her core, and she knows their bond is at work, trying her to do things she isn’t quite ready for.

 

“You have to trust the magic in you, Hermione.” His tone is deep and low, and this time, he’s definitely burying his nose in her hair, ever so slightly bumping against the shell of her ear. The shiver in the touch’s wake is visceral. How easy it would be to turn, to kiss, to-

 

He exhales sharply, suddenly dropping his hands and stepping away from her. “We should take a break for the rest of today.” Hermione agrees and looks after him as he leaves for the garden bench. 

 

The inevitable is close, she thinks, as she sees the sun and the wind playing with his hair. She wants to run her fingers alongside the elements.

 

Hermione knows, just as she is aware that Draco knows through his inherited knowledge, that the more they practise and establish the connection between them, the more intense it gets for them. On the other hand, practise is necessary to stabilize their cores and give them a useful tool to defend themselves if need be.

 

And, confined to a cottage, there’s only so much room to evade each other. 

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next week, Hermione and Draco develop some kind of routine. They train after breakfast, with limited outcome. Draco is still not very adept at handling wandless spells, defensive or offensive, but he improves when it comes to Transfiguration and excels at everything that has to do with mind control in the broader sense. But they don’t know how far his skills really go, for she hasn’t let him into her mind yet. Hermione is too ashamed and angry at what he might find there; she dreams about him, about them, with increasing frequency and explicitness, so much that she doesn’t wake up from nightmares about still being confined to the cell anymore, verging on a panic attack, but instead panting and with telling wetness dampening her underwear. 

 

And she suspects he isn’t much better off. He actively avoids touching her, though she catches him reaching out for her more than once. He spends a lot of time in the shower, and several time she thinks she’s heard him making sounds of need. 

 

Does he feel the same, constant hum of the bond in his core? Whispering how good it would feel to lean her head against his shoulder, among other, much more intimate things?

 

After a simple lunch, they dedicate themselves to reading and researching: wand lore, mostly. Though, Hermione hates to admit, her concentration span is only improving slowly. On this particular afternoon, she gets restless after reading one paragraph of ‘Witches, Wands, and Wizards’ for a third time.

 

“Draco?” she asks her companion next to her who also stares into the relaxed scenery of the garden. Albeit the lush green is grey today, the rain pouring almost sideways due to a stiff wind blowing.

 

He hums to signal his listening, and she continues, “I feel quite foolish to ask only now, but where are we exactly?”

 

“Irish coast.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Could you be a bit more precise?”

 

“Rainy Irish coast?” he teases, and she smacks his head - and regrets it instantly because even the brief contact with his hair has the bond tingling. “Alright. I’m getting a map.”

 

With her magic rejoicing, Hermione only needs a sharp flick of her wrist to summon a book from one of the shelves.

 

Draco makes a sound between a gasp and a snort. “Show off.” After a quick search, he has the map he’s looking for open and on the table. “We’re in Wicklow. Ardanary, to be exact.” He points at a sparsely populated area inside of a lot of green next to the Irish Sea. “The next, larger settlements with wizarding population should be in Laragh and Glendalough.”

 

“Glendalough...that sounds vaguely familiar.”

 

“There’s a well-known monastery there muggles visit often, but the wizarding village is hidden,” Draco explains, and she remembers he’s been here before. 

 

“You’ve been there?”

 

“Yes. After the war. Visited the pub. Got drunk. And hexed by an old lady.” That’s all she gets from him. But his final words pull an fact from her memory.

 

“Aunt Muriel! She lived in Glendalough.”

 

“You’re making no sense, Hermione.” Draco’s nose is scrunched.

 

“Oh, but I do. Aunt Muriel was a great-aunt of Molly Weasley. Ron always told stories how he hated visiting her.” Her excitements finds a sudden end when she remembers who she’s talking to. The topic of any future plans or searching for Harry hasn’t come up since it exploded into an argument last time. “Draco…we should go there. It would be plausible that they’re hiding there.”

 

“No.”

 

“But-”

 

“I said no, Hermione.”

 

Instead of instigating another argument, Hermione exhales, counts to three, and starts again. “Draco, please.” As she words leave her mouth, she grows aware of the tone of her voice: low, pleading - and bit seductive. Unknowingly to her, the bond has creeped up to her. 

 

She’s not proud of what she does next: the man next to her has frozen at the sound of her voice, but she approaches him still. Determination and cabin fever are a dangerous mix for a Gryffindor. Ignoring the way he closes his eyes with tension, Hermione places a hand on the back of his neck. She starts drawing circles with her fingers where his hairline is, and she feels goosebumps erupting on his skin. And on hers. But she’s determined.

 

“No.” His voice has lost its conviction, even though his eyebrows are drawn together firmly, as if he’s fighting an internal fight. And she knows it, because she can feels his magic reacting to hers, purring and almost gigglish.

 

Deciding to go a step further, she stands on her toes and whispers to him, deliberately using the bond to douse her voice with seduction, “ _ Please _ . For me.” It is too easy to do so, her rationality tells her.

 

His eyes fly open, and he has her shoulders grabbed a moment later, establishing some distance between them.

 

“You’re playing with fire here, witch,” he growls. She tilts her head as if to ask,  _ ‘So what? Are you really surprised?’ _ Before she can add fuel to the fire, he concedes, “Fine. We have to do  _ something _ , and Glendalough seems like a legit choice. But-” He releases her abruptly, and then continues, in a dominant voice that makes her think he’s turned the tables, “-I’m going _ alone _ .” 

 

“Why?” The question comes without hidden meaning.

 

“I need to put some distance between us.” This time, when he walks out to the garden, he definitely slams the door behind him. And Hermione can’t bring herself to be angry about it. 

 

Unknowing to the both of them, the plan comes too late.

 

* * *

 

She has no idea what or who starts the argument. The tension between them simply erupts the next morning during their training. 

 

That’s when they find out that they can’t raise their magic against each other. 

 

She  _ really  _ wants to hex him, to shut his arrogant, stupid, oh-so-tempting mouth - but she can’t. The magic refuses. 

 

He smirks in reaction, all too reminiscent of their time at Hogwarts, and she snaps. Closing the distance between them, Hermione stomps towards him, ready to slap him.

 

Just an inch before her hand touches his cheek, he grabs it and stops her. “You really want to use violence against me, Hermione?” 

 

“Yes!” She doesn’t hesitate. For a second, his eyes are ablazing, and she’s almost afraid that he, too, is losing control. Instead, he turns her around, the grip on her arms firm, and pulls her with her back against his body. 

 

“Why?” he asks her. 

 

“You just make me so angry. Your mere presence, this cottage, this whole  _ fucking _ situation!” She almost screams the final words. 

 

He chuckles, darkly and dangerously. And so tempting. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t only anger you feel.” 

 

Of course she knows. And she doesn’t need the rising heat between her legs to remind her of that, nor the way her heart accelerates along with her pulsing magic when he talks to her like that, his voice raspy and low and triggering the most primal parts of her brain. 

 

Draco’s hands wander to her hips, pulling her even closer to him. She exhales with a moan when she feels how much he’s affected by her, his arousal hard and persistent against her lower back.

 

“There must be another way to get rid of the tension. Other than-” Her words are breathless, and the magic reacts with a wave of irritation upon her denial. His lips touch the sensitive skin at the side of her neck, and she’s sure he can smell her arousal pooling in her knickers by now. 

 

She’s torn. So torn between enjoying the act of magic and lust working through them and running away from the responsibility of the pact she’s willingly stepped into. 

 

“Give in, Hermione. You won’t regret it,” Draco mumbles into her ear, sending visceral shivers through her entire body. 

 

“No!” she yells, but her magic overruns her logic when she turns and looks at him. His pupils dilated to the point that his eyes are black, breathing heavily, the shirt clinging to his sweated skin. “I don’t want to risk falling pregnant,” she tries, feebly, knowing that this primitive, yet cunning type of magic would wreck rampage with her system, counter every contraceptive spell. 

 

Draco curls one hand around her neck, his thumb drawing circles at the base of her head. As contradictory as it is, this touch calms her, makes her want to curl around him and spend the rest of the day cuddling and reading with her head on his lap and his fingers massaging her scalp. Or is it the bond talking? Why does she even care? 

 

“I know a way around that. A potion Severus told me about. Unplottable. Tricking the magic. Never thought I’d need it. Just…Hermione, I don’t know how much longer I can resist this pull. Or even want to resist it. Merlin, but I _ want _ you.” He leans his forehead against hers and pierces her eyes with his in an act of pure desperation. 

 

She knows he means her no harm, won’t take her against her will. 

 

And that’s why she kisses him. Just a kiss and then she’ll stop, she says to herself. Just to take the edge off. 

 

She forgets that initial promise to herself quickly. Sweat, wind, and water are what she tastes on Draco’s soft lips. It’s so different from their first kiss. Where the first one was warmth, this one is an inferno. Where this one is an attack, the other one had been a caress. 

 

As soon as they give in, she feels every nerve set on fire. It’s liberating. And when his tongue curls around hers, a soft moan escaping him, she knows there’s no turning back. 

 

_ Ever. _

 

What follows next is intense. Surreal, like so many things when it comes to her and Draco, it seems. It’s a strange mix of familiarity and foreignness. 

 

He knows her sweet spots, tracing every inch of her skin with his tongue, his lips, his fingers. Does her magic guide him to them? Just as she knows that it makes him groan when she presses wet kisses on the remains of the Dark Mark or runs the tip of her tongue over his balls? 

 

She’s not sure she cares anymore. 

 

He worships her body, making her beg him to touch her, her nipples hard and her pussy wet to a point she hasn’t thought possible. The moment he sinks into her makes her see stars, filling her like they are made for each other - not a result of two schoolmates, former adversaries really, and an unhealthy dose of magic. Of course, she knows the bond is supplying this thought, but they do move perfectly together. 

 

At no point does Hermione have the feeling that this man between her legs, thrusting into her with deep, desperate strokes, wants anything else than to find his peace with her, in her, coating her insides with his seed in the process. 

 

The magic swirls around them, behind their eyes, amplifying their moans, their sighs, their screams for more. 

 

And she  _ does _ scream for more. 

 

This, she is sure, is a part of her, not of the bond. Hermione has always loved sex, with it being the only moment where she is able to turn off the white noise of her overly active brain. And Draco certainly excels at it. 

 

When they flip around and she is on top, she all but loses it upon the intensity of lust in his eyes. The things he whispers - it’s all Draco Malfoy, and he’s making her blush and dripping with the thoughts of future couplings he implants in her mind, as deep as the essence he spills into her. 

 

She’s never come so hard in her life. 

 

When they lay in her bed, the sweat cooling on their skin and their heartbeats slowing down, Hermione feels something snap or rather...click, followed by a second of magical blindness. 

 

She gasps, her heartbeat running and her eyes finding Draco’s, and without saying it aloud, they both know that their bonding has been finalised - is now practically unbreakable. 

 

The voice in her head, screaming what a bullshit idea this is, has quieted to a whisper. The mayhem and disorder is now replaced by order and calmth. Hermione knows they’re still entirely different people, still temperamental and opinionated. But now, to be with Draco and staying with him suddenly doesn’t seem the end of ambition anymore. 

 

This certainly isn’t love. But it is  _ something _ . Bond be damned.

* * *

 

To be alone is the strangest feeling. It’s as relieving as it is discerning. Hermione is glad to be alone when Draco leaves for Glendalough, but it also is as if she’s forgotten something important. Even though the reason that he wanted to go alone in the first place is void now, they both are aware that they could need a time-out from each other.

 

Deciding to chanel her restlessness into productivity, she tries to put something together for lunch. Holding the pan in one hand and a piece of meat in the other, she can’t help but find the whole situation ironic: the Brightest Witch of Her Age playing housewife, waiting for her husband, a Malfoy, to come home. 

 

However, before she breaks out in a hysteric fit, she finds herself face to face with Narcissa Malfoy letting herself into the house. Barely suppressing the impulse to throw the heavy pan at the intruder, she forces her face into a mask of indifference.

 

She should have expected it. A witch like her mother-in-law wouldn’t simply leave them be.

“Draco isn’t here,” Hermione says, skipping all pleasantries that don’t exist between them anyway. 

 

“I’m aware. Though, I won’t ask where he is. The less I know, the more I can pretend being ignorant.” Also something Hermione expects from her.

 

“Why are you here then?” 

 

“Surely not for observing you putting your cooking qualities to use.” The older witch’s words ring like an insult in her ears. “Something changed between you, hasn’t it? The magic shifted...the tapestry of our family tree acted...accordingly. That’s why I’m here.” 

 

Shocked, Hermione places a hand over her lower abdomen, for once at loss for words. “But...the potion should work. And it would be too early, even with the tapestry…” 

 

Narcissa laughs, though the sound isn’t pleasant. “Silly girl. You aren’t pregnant.” The ‘yet’ remains unspoken. “Nothing happened. But the leaves are ruffled from a wind that could become a storm. It’s more subtle than a new branch indiating the coming of a child or a marriage that’s considered official these days. The tree is shaken - quivering. It was drawn in the more modern times when the customs had already changed.” 

 

“The magic in it is conflicted,” Hermione concludes and Narcissa nods sharply. “Who knows about this?” 

 

“Don’t worry, Miss Granger.” The way Narcissa addresses her is clearly an insult to her new status, but Hermione could care less. “I can keep secrets from my husband if I want. And the fact that you and Draco consummated your marriage and finalized the bond is one of them.” Hermione realizes then that this is why Narcissa wanted to speak to her alone. She has come with the expectation to demonstrate a power she has over her.

 

“And? Will you?” 

 

“Pardon me?” Draco’s mother raises her eyebrows slightly in a way that is intended to make her feel inadequate. Though, Hermione won’t back down.

 

“Do you want to keep the bond between Draco and me a secret?” she clarifies.

 

“I’d do anything for my son, and you know that, Miss Granger.” 

 

“Oh yes, I know that. The question is: does that extend to an unwanted daughter-in-law?” 

 

Instead of answering, Narcissa purses her lips and turns towards the door. 

 

It is when she has opened it halfway that Hermione decides to play by her rules. With a flick of her wrist, she has the door slammed shut and Narcissa pinned to it, immobilized. “How…? You don’t have a wand.” 

 

“Not  _ yet _ , thanks to you. Apparently, Draco can keep secrets from his mother if he wants to. You didn’t ask  _ how exactly _ we escaped Azkaban, did you?” 

 

“Wandless magic,” Narcissa whispers. And, for the first time, Hermione sees a layer of fear in the ice-blue eyes of the other witch. Fear of her. Of her power. And, instantly, she knows why power is something so many people strive to possess. It’s addictive. Satisfying. 

 

It sickens her. Still, she uses it. 

 

“Ten points to Slytherin.” She steps closer to Narcissa, so close she can smell the expensive perfume the woman uses. “Don’t ever underestimate me. Don’t ever forget the responsibility for the continuation of the Black and the Malfoy line lies in Draco and my hands. That should be a good motivation for people like you to keep us both safe and happy, shouldn’t it?” She releases her, messing up her perfectly coiffed hair just for fun. 

 

Hermione gives the other woman a few seconds to pull herself together. 

 

“Well played...how should I address you? Missus Malfoy?” 

 

“Hermione will suffice,  _ Narcissa _ .“ 

 

With a curt nod, Narcissa leaves the house, and as soon as she hears the sound of Apparition, Hermione is shaking as the adrenaline leaves her. How she hates this struggle for power, for supremacy. And still, she gets caught up in these moments more often or not. She lets herself sink to the floor where she has been standing.This is the condition Draco finds her in, not a minute later. 

 

“What happened?” He pulls her up from the floor, checking her for signs of injury, his mood verging on panic. “I suddenly got this...this weird feeling. A pull. But it took me a while to find a spot to Apparate.” 

 

“Your mother came by for a tea party.” At her admission, Draco cradles her had in both hands. They’re slightly sweaty, but so calming against her skin.

 

“Merlin help me. She didn’t hurt you, did she?” 

 

“You expect your mother to hold a candle against me?” She smirks shakily and tells the story. At the end of it, Draco kisses her passionately. Proudly. Praising her between smouldering touches of his lips.

 

And Hermione starts thinking that they’re good for each other. That they hold the potential of being each other’s shelter for the storm that they brew themselves. 

  
  



	4. Greet the One we'll soon become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love to MrBenzedrine89 <3 <3 <3

“I couldn’t get in,” Draco tells her the following morning over a mug of fantastic Italian coffee nearly casually. “Into Glendalough,” he specifies.”They must have heavily warded it against outsiders since the last time I visited there.” 

 

“Maybe they simply updated the security terms?” Hermione suggests, spreading orange jam on her still warm French croissant. No, the house elves surely don’t let them starve. If she ever has the chance to thank them…no. There’s no use in dwelling on such thoughts.

 

“Maybe. Or they are protecting someone?” 

 

“Wouldn’t that be conspicuous?” she asks.

 

“No. The Irish may be neutral, but they are quite aware of the dangers the current British regime brings, so they have become more protective of their wizarding community here.” Naturally, with his father up in the high ranks of the cursed Ministry, he’d possess information she wouldn’t get a hold on.

 

The urge to check the village for her friends rises. “But there has to be a way to get in, even without the proper password. There’s always a backdoor.”

 

Draco hums in agreement. “I think you should accompany me next time.” 

 

She hides her excitement behind a mocking, “You’re taking me on a date?” 

 

“No. But then again, I guess some historical site and some gravestones must count as that for you.” 

 

Her eyes find his, and, a moment later, she giggles. He’s just adorable with his perfect hair mussed from sleep and the pajama trousers he is wearing low on his hips. But, most importantly, he gives her an honest smile. One of the kind that warms a witch’s heart, and leaves lifelong footprints in it.

 

******

 

Later, Draco asks, “Don’t you think we’ve moved past this stage in the past days?” when she wants to enter her room, and he is about to do the same with his. 

 

She feels him approaching her, and she’s afraid she can’t and _ won’t  _ resist him when she looks at his face. It’s almost too much as it is with their cores playing with each other every time he’s near. “No,” she insists, and immediately, his magic is…disappointed. 

 

_ He _ is disappointed. 

 

She feels the urge to explain. “It...the sex...was fantastic, really. But-” 

 

“But what, Hermione?”

 

“My theory is that the bonding also increases the oxytocin levels, and while the pressure for coitus lessens somewhat after the initial coupling, the hormone level increases further to strengthen the marriage, and eventually, the protection of a child.” She knows she’s rambling and even understands the gleaming anger that swaps over her inner boundaries. 

 

“Somewhat  _ lessened _ ? Witch, I held to my control very tight the entire day. Otherwise, I’d have bent you over that damn kitchen table and-” 

 

“I know! And I probably wouldn’t have needed any convincing,” she says, louder than planned. 

 

He stops clashing against her mental walls then, placing a comforting hand on her arm. The change in his demeanor is striking, as if her confession was the only thing he needed. “I don’t intend to hurt you.” 

 

“I’m aware. But Draco, we…we’re only starting to get to know each other. I need to discern what’s you and what’s the bond.” She projects her feelings to him, not exactly knowing how it works, but surmising it does since he nods to an unasked question. 

 

“I understand. And you’re probably right.” He leans over to her and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. “But I do miss having you near at night. With the hole in the wall you were closer…” 

 

Instead of goading him because he openly shared his feelings, she promises, “Soon.” And she really means it. Intimacy isn’t only about sex. It’s often about hearing your partner breathing and dreaming next to you. It’s waking from a bad dream and turning towards them and falling asleep again. In Azkaban, they had a variation of that. Before the bond. But now, the real thing is in reach. She just has to stretch out her fingers and grab it.  

 

Though...not tonight. 

 

* * *

 

They Apparate to Glendalough, carefully disguised as tourists. Hermione has managed to transfigure their clothes into convincing muggle ones, complete with a basecap from a London university for him and sunglasses for her, along with a runes book found in the cottages to appear as a tourist guide. 

 

The moment her feet touch the ground, she feels it:  _ magic _ . It’s everywhere: an entirely magical place. As old as the bond’s workings. 

 

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Draco asks. 

 

“Yes. But if you think about it, it makes sense. Magic hasn’t the same density everywhere. Some places hold more magic than others. Stonehenge, Greenwich, Hogwarts, just to name a few. The monks must have felt it, too. And whoever separated the wizarding village from the muggles. Quite fascinating, really.” Again, he has this serene smile. “Deep in your dark soul, you like it when I lecture you, right?” 

 

“Kept me sane more than once.” With that, he wanders off, leaving her to venture the scenery as he already has the previous time.

 

And so, she does. She translates every hidden magical rune, every Latin inscription, checks what feels like every stone in the huge area, even goes so far as to cast a revealing spell on several occasions. 

 

And she comes up with nothing. The sun is high and warm when she gives up, venturing back to Draco who has taken residence on a wooden bench under a willow, overlooking the graveyard.

 

“I can’t find anything. No code. No entrance. Nothing,” she rants, and Draco wordlessly hands her an apple and a bottle of water. 

 

“Eat, witch. I can hear your stomach rumbling in my head.” She looks at him apologetically, not having realized that he’d be aware of her hunger. It seems the bond still grows in strength, making them aware of each other’s immediate needs, not only danger or lust.

 

“Sorry. It’s just that I can feel the magic in this place, just beneath the surface of what we can actually see.” 

 

He hums his acquiescence, and, for a while, they sit next to each other in comfortable silence.

 

After a while of letting their eyes wander over the peaceful scenery, Hermione feels a peak of excitement from her companion.“Hermione...There’s something strange about some of the gravestones here. I’ve been looking at them for a while, and some are…not like the others.” 

 

She concentrates on the rows of old stones, many of them with only vaguely recognizable letters and numbers.

 

Though, some of the inscriptions look slightly...off. New. Always one or two numbers on one stone.

 

Hermione gasps. “There’s a pattern. One new number on one gravestone, then three without, then another one.” She points at one row. “31, 1, 19!” Her heart beats like a stampede. 

 

“Do these numbers hold some significance for you?”

 

It stings, a minuscule bit, that Draco can’t be aware of it, but she explains gladly, “Our birthdays. Harry’s on the thirty-first of July, Ron’s on the first of March, mine on the nineteenth of September.”

 

“Clever bastards,” Draco drawls, not too excited.

 

“And that row over there: 31,10, 91! That’s they date of the Troll incident in our first year. That was the day we started to become friends!”

 

“I understand that special code, but what has Will O’Whomping to do with your emotional Gryffindor bonding story? That’s a strange name, really, but it’s also newly carved.” The blond tilts his head towards the stone.

 

On impulse, Hermione grabs Draco’s face, kissing him soundly on the lips. 

 

Surprised at first, he soon kisses back, his soft lips slanting against hers, their tongues playing eagerly with each other. Before things develop further, as their shared magic suggests and ignorant of the location, she pulls herself away. His grey irises are glazed, and she can feel the blush on her cheeks, both due to excitement over the discovery and the kiss. “I’m not going to apologize,” she starts and earns a smirk as reaction. “But that was probably the final hint. I didn’t see it because I was so concentrated on the numbers. This,” she says, gesturing to the tree they are sitting under, “is probably Will O’Whomping. That’s the silly nickname Ron gave the Whomping Willow when telling his niece, Victoire, stories about our Hogwarts adventures she couldn’t yet understand.”

 

“But what has this to do with us getting into Glendalough?” 

 

“The WIllow is actually the entrance to the Shrieking Shack. And I think, this willow here,” she rises from the bench and waits until Draco stands behind her to cover her from unwanted onlookers, “is our VIP entrance to wizarding Glendalough.” Drawing from her magic without touching Draco, she traces the numbers into the air, feeling the wards opening layer by layer. 

 

Like at Platform 9 ¾, they enter through the invisible barrier, hands firmly laced.

 

* * *

 

Glendalough is surprisingly lively, but not comparable to Hogsmeade or Diagon. Slowly, they make their way through it. Small, tended to houses, like they were found in many Irish villages, line the streets. They walk around unscathed, their disguise still intact, and no one acknowledges them besides a nodded greeting. Of course, people expect them to be harmless because they entered the village without violating the wards, thus they have to be aware of the regular password. But there is no sight of a familiar redhead or Harry.

 

Hermione is just about to suggest they come back later when she hears him. 

 

“Call me crazy, Ron, but I could swear I felt our special ward being triggered.” 

 

“Don’t get your hopes up too high, mate. You say this at least once a week. Gin says you even tell the baby about it. And he isn’t even born.” Merlin,  _ Ron! _

 

Joy spreads in Hermione’s chest; so the guards in Azkaban had been right. Harry and Ginny had settled down and were adding to the family. 

 

“It’s different this time. Don’t you feel it?” 

 

“I had Mum’s cabbage for lunch. The only thing I feel is its digestion.” Harry laughs at Ron’s joke, and there’s a moment Hermione listens to them laughing. Then she notices they are already quite close. 

 

She turns to Draco, and they withdraw into the space between two houses. “Maybe you should step back for now. It’s going to take some time to explain-” 

 

“- _ Us _ . I agree. But I am here if you need me.” Draco’s honest support means more to her than she can express. The footsteps ring louder, and so she steps out of her hiding place and into the sun.

 

“Hi, Harry. Ron. So good to see you.”

 

The simple greeting has a spectacular effect, sending different waves of emotions over Harry’s and Ron’s faces. Surprise, shock, and finally the war-ridden paranoia so ingrained in their behaviour.

 

“Hermione? Is that really you?” Showing her wandless hands, she nods.

 

“Prove it,” Harry demands, and she realizes he has aged in the past years. His eyes are tired, but the grip on his wand is unwavering.  

 

She knows what she has to do. The Order of the Phoenix had a protocol for situations like this. “Wait...” Shucking her left shoe and sock, she exposes her left heel to Harry, and, with a whispered word, the phoenix tattoo appears. 

 

Harry actually sobs and throws his arms around her. “Hermione! You made it! I hoped…we heard about an outbreak and hoped…Ron said if someone makes it-” 

 

“It’s our favourite girl and bookworm!” comes the second familiar voice from the side. Ron mimicked his best friend’s actions by enveloping Hermione in a bear hug. With her friends’ arms around her, encompassed by their scents and voices, tears threaten to fall from her eyes. 

 

“I missed you,” she simply says. 

 

In the back of her mind, she feels another presence washing against hers, calming her inner distress. Only then she remembers she is no longer alone. Reluctantly, she extracts herself from the duo’s embrace. 

 

“How have you made it?” “How did you find us?” Harry and Ron start asking simultaneously, and she grins at their elation so much like her own. 

 

“I had help,” she confesses, a bit guarded. 

 

“Great! Who helped you?” 

 

Hermione stretches her hand towards the place he waits, and Draco comes forth. In a split second, the lowered wands are up again, and two “ _ Stupefy _ !” are fired in the unassuming wizard’s direction.

 

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Without even thinking of rising her own defenses, Hermione rushes to Draco, kneeling down next to him. He has bumped his head while falling, she sees, but is otherwise fine except for the unconsciousness. Turning to her supposedly best friends, she fumes, “He doesn’t even have a wand! And he’s the one who helped me! We’re-” The distrust in Harry’s eyes should’ve alerted her to defend herself, but despite the war and Azkaban behind her, she simply doesn’t expect them to raise their wands against her, stunning her.

 

It isn’t often Hermione Granger is wrong.  

  
  
  
  



	5. End of innocence, unending masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for supporting my little story, and, as always, a royal hug for my beta, MrBenzedrine89!

Hermione awakes and finds herself bound to a chair by heavy ropes. Before she can take in her surroundings, the memories of Azkaban find her. 

 

_ They _ did that to her. Bound her to a chair. Tortured her. Made her scream with physical and psychological pain. So much that the blood trickled down her wrists from the struggle against the bonds. Made her curse and doubt herself.

 

“No!” she screams, and something in the way her voice resonates in her surroundings makes her aware that she isn’t in Azkaban anymore. Her second “No,” comes much more convinced, and she takes deep, calming breaths, concentrating on her slowing heartbeat and the newly expanded source of magic inside of her.

 

When she’s certain she is in control of herself again, Hermione analyses the room around her. She spots Harry and Ron some distance across from her, both with gloomy expressions and standing next to a large, wooden table. They are in…a living and dining area, she surmises from the interior. It’s a bit worn, but that only adds to the cozy atmosphere. This certainly isn’t Azkaban. Probably.

 

To her surprise, Bill Weasley sits on a chair nearby, impatiently tapping his fingers against a cup of tea. Draco is next to her, equally bound and still unconscious, and she can tell the bond isn’t happy about the situation.

 

“You two idiots!” Hermione swears at her friends angrily, if she can still call them that. “I told you I had help! You didn’t have to stun us. You knew it was me and no one else!” Her loud voice must have woke Draco, for he opens his eyes. Like Hermione, the first thing he seems to feel is panic, and by the sound of his ragged breathing and his wide open (but unfocused) eyes, she knows his reaction is worse than hers. She feels his magic is in chaos, as unfocused as he is.

 

To see him like that breaks her heart. She wants to help him. No, she  _ has _ to help him. “Untie me!” she orders no one in particular. When no one comes, she searches the faces of the bystanding wizards.

 

To her utter disappointment, all she sees is doubt.

 

“Untie me!  _ Now _ ! Or I swear to Merlin, I will-” She doesn’t know if it’s her unfinished thread or the magic crackling on her skin that finally gets Bill to get up and loosen her bindings, but two seconds later and she would have taken the plunge and removed them wandlessly.

 

Not giving a damn about what Harry, Bill, and Ron will think, she rushes to Draco’s side, practically tearing the ropes from him, and takes him into her arms. He’s had such an episode before, in prison, and so she knows what can potentially help. Holding him tightly, she starts whispering words. To an outsider, it must seem like she’s to mutter sweet, calming nonsense, but in reality, she uses the same pattern she’s used before: reciting texts, potions recipes, excerpts from ‘Hogwarts: A History’. Cicero too, this time, because she knows he’s familiar with the ancient politician. 

 

Slowly, after what seems an eternity, he comes back, blinking. “Hey,” she says, softly. “Are you back?” He nods carefully, slowly bringing himself into a sitting position, still a bit out of breath.

 

She’s about to let off a tirade of swear words and curses at Ron and Harry, who both have stood unmoving during her interference, when another person enters the room. With her fine blonde hair and her big blue eyes, there’s no doubt who it is.

 

“Luna!” Hermione is truly surprised. She had no idea that the former Ravenclaw has found her way to Harry and the Weasleys.

 

Looking slightly out of place like she always does, but with an open smile playing on her lips, the other witch greets her. “Hello, Hermione. And Draco.”

 

An explanation for her presence follows when Ron welcomes her with a kiss and drapes his arm around her waist. So she’s here for _ him _ , Hermione thinks, and the thought somehow calms her. No matter how bad her relationship with him had gone, she still thought of him as her friend. At least until he had  _ stunned  _ her.

 

“What do you say, Luna? What is going on with them?”

Blue eyes scrutinize Hermione and Draco, evoking both curiosity and bit of anxiety in the brunette. 

 

“Their auras are merging. There is a deep, ancient bond. One of a kind that demands an intense connection.” 

 

“Dark magic?” Harry wants to know, wand already at the ready. By the set of his jaw, he sees his suspicions confirmed. Does he really believe Draco has her under some kind of dark spell? Or that she has gone crazy in Azkaban and doesn’t know what is right or wrong anymore?

 

Though, Luna merely tilts her head. “Yes and no. This kind of magic comes from a time when dark and light magic were the same.” 

 

Bill gasps, his gaze fixing Hermione’s. “You _ didn’t _ . Not with a Malfoy. Herms,” he uses the odd nickname only he and Charlie have made their habit,  “it’s unbreakable.” She knew this moment of surprise, of disappointment would come. But she hadn’t adapted to their expectations when she had stayed in England and wouldn’t now.

 

“Believe me,” Draco snorts, “she knows what she’s in for.  _ Intimately _ .” 

 

Hermione glares at him for his unnecessary pun, even when she recognizes protectiveness and jealousy in his tone.

 

“Where are the others? Where are Ginny and Molly?” she asks as a distraction. 

 

“Thought it best not to have too many people running around until we know what we’re dealing with.” Ron’s voice is tense. He’s always been more perceptive than Harry and is probably aware that there’s more to her and Draco than the eye can see. 

 

“You better have an explanation for appearing here out of the blue with Draco Malfoy as your lapdog.” Harry frowns but finally sits down at the table.

 

Before her lapdog can reply, she speaks up, as condescing as she manages, “And  _ you  _ better listen to what I have to say. And, for the record,  _ you _ left an invitation on your door for me. The magic was even quite sophisticated.” Straightening her clothes, she sits across from her raven-haired friend, pulling Draco with her, not without muttering to him, “I know you want to strangle him, but let me handle this, okay?” 

 

Luna, humming merrily to herself, starts to prepare tea. And Hermione starts talking...

 

“A blood bond with a Death Eater is insane!” 

 

To say the atmosphere is tense when her story comes to the situation between Draco and her is an understatement. He tenses beside her but stays remarkably calm. Instead, she feels her own temper flaring up.

 

“Dying in Azkaban is insane! And it’s not as if I signed up for this!” Hermione argues back at Harry. They’re facing each other now, the table serving as barrier between them.

 

“And yet-” 

 

“And yet what, Ron?” 

 

He gestures at Draco’s hand, which is resting on her waist in an effort to calm her. 

 

“What’s happening between Draco and I is our private affair.” 

 

“It isn’t. Not anymore,” Harry says. “Not since you want to drag us into a war that isn’t ours anymore. Because that’s why you’re here, right?  You’ve made the fight yours unnecessarily.” 

 

Draco inhales sharply. “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that, Potter.” She doesn’t know if it’s because they’re bound or he’s more familiar with her, but he really  _ gets  _ her.

 

Draco’s words to his mother playing in her head, Hermione almost snorts at the ironic parallels in them. “Fuck you, Harry Potter.” Harry’s eyes widen, for she has never addressed him this drastically. But the time for sparing the Chosen One’s feelings is over. Have been for years.

 

“Fuck me, you say? Do I look like Malfoy?” he snarls. 

 

Hermione’s self-control is on the verge of imploding. “What are you even saying?” Because, naturally, she knows exactly what Harry means.

 

“I’m not as dumb as you think I am, Hermione! I’ve worked as an Auror. I know what such bonds lead to. I bet it didn’t even take twenty-four hours until you climbed into his bed. You made a deal with the devil and sealed it with blood and sex.” 

 

Hermione is already in the process of drawing her magic to hex his stupid arse into next week when Luna speaks up, “That’s enough, Harry. You’re taking it too far. Provoke her any further, and you’re going to end up cursed into oblivion. Or the bond overheats.” 

 

As if Luna’s words make things come true, Draco indeed sinks down in his chair, pale as a ghost. Hermione is then aware she has overwhelmed him, occupied the bond just as he had done when Narcissa had arrived on their first day in the cottage. 

 

“Maybe you should sit down outside and talk for a bit until you’ve sorted yourself out,” Luna suggests with subtle pressure and glances at Draco, who looks unwell at the thought. “Just the three of them,” she suggests and points at Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Hermione almost giggles at the irony that Luna Lovegood of all people is the voice of reason. Giving Draco’s hand a squeeze and a reassuring wave of emotions through the bond, she stomps out what she assumes is the garden door.

 

The garden is beautiful. Most of the flowering plants are in full bloom, and the lavender especially plenty. The scent of it should be soothing, but it only reminds her of their own cottage garden. It doesn’t even faze her anymore that she thinks of it as  _ their _ home, her and Draco’s, instead of Narcissa Malfoy’s hideaway. Just as she doesn’t think of her future, but  _ their  _ future at this point. 

 

And where this garden is a seemingly messy composition of wild flowers, theirs is the perfect assortment of logical and deadly plants. The perfect representation of her life.

 

In attempt of a rational conversation, she asks, “Whose house is this? Aunt Muriel’s?”

 

Ron confirms with a nod. “Aunt Muriel passed it on to us, probably with a situation like this in mind. And it has the ideal size for a family like Harry’s.”

 

“What about you, Ron? Where do you live?”

 

“Ron lives here with us until he and Luna find a house of their own. Bill and Fleur live down the street, next to Arthur and Molly.” This time, Harry answers. He and Ron must have grown even closer.

 

“Anyone else I know? What about George? And Percy? And Charlie?” She has missed so much, she realizes, and it hits her hard: it doesn’t seem as if she has been missed at all in their lives.

 

“This isn’t important right now, Hermione,” Harry interferes with her thoughts. “We’re here to discuss your life and your plan to get engaged in fighting again.”

 

“So you mean to say that you are happy to stay here and let England go to shit?”

 

“Well, I have saved their arses from their self-induced misery once already; I think someone else can do the job now.” Has Harry really become idle? 

“This isn’t going to be a one-man show. It’s going to need a group effort. Believe me, I know. I, in contrary to you, fought alone for too long. And I wasn’t enough.”

 

“Why do you even want to help the wizards and witches in England? It’s not as if they helped you a great deal.” Ron is right, in a way. But also fatally wrong. 

 

“Because they’re involving children now. Running propaganda against those with ‘inferior’ heritance. Controlling almost every aspect of people’s life, and the Marriage Law is only the beginning of it. They’ve tortured and probably killed ‘suspects’ in Azkaban. They took Draco in because he didn’t want to marry Astoria Greengrass.”

 

“But is it really  _ our _ fight?” Harry demands angrily.

 

“Let’s phrase it differently, for you seem to be slow on the uptake: do you want your son and all the children you and Ginny will have to grow up in a secret location? Like your parents? You’ve essentially copied their behaviour, are you aware of that?” Hermione is yelling now, the frustration breaking out of her. “Do you want them never to know what freedom is?”

 

“You don’t need to yell at me. I understand you. Really, I do. But it’s not as easy for us as it is to you.”  

 

“Yes, because it’s been  _ so easy _ for me in the past years.” Sarcasm and hurt turn her voice cold. 

 

“No. But, in contrast to the past, I have a lot more to lose now. Hermione, we’ve settled down here. The community protects us. Ron is here, and he and Luna want to get married soon. I’m a father now. Our second child is due any day. Britain is so far away from here.” 

 

A second child already. Suddenly, her knees wobble and she has to sit down. Tears, unbidden and bitter, fall from her eyes as reality sets in. “I’m worthless to you. You don’t need me here. All I have risked and sacrificed - it’s meaningless because you built your peaceful, perfect life entirely without me.” 

 

“It isn’t meaningless,” Ron soothes her, sinking down on the bench next to her and patting her back. “It only means we have to calculate our risks carefully. We want to help you, but we can’t jump into adventures headfirst anymore.” 

 

“I always have a plan.” 

 

“So, Malfoy was part of the plan?” Having spent her time exclusively with Draco, she isn’t certain if Ron is as sarcastic as he sounds. 

 

“Obviously not. It’s just…I was ready to die in Azkaban, for the cause. And I almost did. Then Draco came along.”

 

“And offered you a way out he’d profit from.” 

 

“We offered ourselves a chance to escape and survive,” she corrects Harry, and something in her voice must be so impressive that she sees conviction settle in her friends’ eyes. “The connection we formed is strong, enhancing our powers.” To show what she means, she wandlessly summons a bundle of lavender, bound together by a dark violet ribbon.

 

Even though Ron’s eyes widen at the demonstration, he is still curious. “So the blood bond enrichens your already existing powers, which isn’t entirely surprising. But is that all that happens between you two? You need to help us understand...” 

 

“No that isn’t all. Draco and I have…something. Something that matters. Just as you can’t be almost killed by a troll and come out unchanged, you can’t forge an ancient marriage bond without initial connection. And we’re adding to that connection every day.” The moment she speaks the words, she realizes that they’re true.  

 

“Luna said something like that. That the oak only grows strong when the seed falls on nurturing ground.” 

 

“Luna is right. Though, this is still so new that I can’t label what we are exactly. You have to trust me and your girlfriend here, Ronald.” Ron blushes, and Hermione knows he and Luna are indeed deeply in love. “We should give our next steps some thought and planning. I want to feel safe for a bit before we fight again. And we need to learn to trust each other again, apparently.” 

 

“And does Draco make you feel safe, Hermione?” Harry wants to know then, the anger entirely gone from his voice. She thinks a bit and looks towards the door where she has spotted telling blonde fringes a while ago, lying in wait should she need him. She pokes him magically, causing him to peek around the corner. He smirks apologetically, and she chuckles at the scene. 

 

“Yes. He makes me feel safe.”  _ ‘And so much more,’ _ she adds in her mind. “Accept that. We’re a team now.”

 


	6. Time to rest now and to finish the show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, here's the final chapter of this story.
> 
> Without two lovely ladies, this story wouldn't exist: MrBenzedrine89, my friend and beta, who's always there for me and listens to me whining, and Kyonomiko, who encouraged me to continue this (you MUST read her new story, Looking Glass). Also: hugs for LaBelladoneX, coyg-81, and NeverNik for cheerleading!
> 
> Oh, and I didn't mention this before, but all chapter titles include lyrics from Nightwish songs.

“Okay, here’s the  _ Wand Compendium _ , there’s  _ A Wandmaker’s Tale _ , and, not to forget,  _ Witches, Wands, and Wizards _ ,” Hermione mutters to herself while scanning the table for a final time. It feels good to be organized, despite the chaos her life is. Draco snorts, and she snaps at him, “This is a very delicate procedure. The balance of-”

 

“I’m not an idiot, _ Granger. _ I’ve read the same books as you,” he says, arrogantly. “But from what I understand, wandmaking is something you can’t learn from the books entirely. Like  _ flying _ .” This remark shuts her up -- also because she knows he’s right -- but she still huffs in annoyance.

 

“Then you can start, if you’re  _ so _ smart.” 

 

He looks at her as if he wants to reply something but decides otherwise and takes a few, deep breaths to concentrate. Slowly, he lets his eyes wander over the ingredients set on the table: the dragon scales in the middle, then various wooden wand shells. They all have different lengths and are made of the potential woods from the garden: apple, pear, blackthorn, and cherry.   

 

She observes his actions, impressed by how natural it all appears, how in tune Draco seems to be with his instincts. She knows he’s flying by instinct because she feels his magic reaching out to every unfinished wand, channeled through his left hand, while his right hand cups a portion of the dragon scales.

 

Suddenly, his magic hums louder, pulling on hers and again merging with it. She opens her eyes, not even remembering she has closed them, and finds herself breathless and staring at her partner. His hand gripping one of the blackthorn wands, his entire form is bathed in an aura of magic. She more feels than hears him citing the century old enchantment to bring the core and the wood together in their final symbiosis. It is a primitive version of Apparition, the books have told them: the insertion of the core into the wand.

 

As Draco speaks the final word, his eyes find hers, and she’s captivated by the intensity of his gaze. She reacts with her body, as well as her mind, to his enthralling display, not able to tell them apart, hot shivers rippling through her. 

 

“Your turn.” His triumphant smile only makes it worse, highlighting his attractive features as he’s twirling his brand new wand between his fingers. He really still is an arrogant bastard when he wants to be. 

 

Hermione grabs a handful of dragon scales carefully, then she stretches her other hand out over the remaining wand shells. Closing her eyes to shut him out as much as it is possible with them being bonded, she’s set on following his example.

 

While she moves over the wood, numbers are running through her mind; 10 ¾ inches, like her old one. 11 inches, like Harry’s. 12 inches, like Ron’s first. 13 inches, like Neville’s. Cherry. Apple. Blackthorn. Pear. Why do so many fruit trees also serve as wand wood? Would she and Draco be able to exchange the wands easily? What if-

 

Something explodes in the background, and Hermione is startled by the shattering sound. Turning around, she notices that one of the glass vases on the window still lies in shambles.

 

“You’re overthinking. Just let the magic flow.”

 

“Not helping,” she hisses at Draco. She can’t  _ not  _ think, especially with her magic buzzing around like a hive of irritated bees.

 

After another round over the wands and a dozen books falling off a shelf as a result, she’s frustrated. This instinctual magic has never come to her easily. That’s why she isn’t so fond of flying - in contrast to the blond across from her. 

 

Draco grumbles, but then he reaches over the table, placing his hands over hers. 

 

“Trust the magic to choose the right wand. Let it guide you.” He’s almost whispering. She can’t explain why exactly his warm skin on hers relaxes her instantly, the buzzing quickly slowing to a hum. Draco gently moves her hand over the wood. And this time, she can feel it. The scales on the one side, the wood on the other, trying to synchronize but failing and disconnecting again, glowing in different colours behind her eyes. She also feels Draco pulling his magic back until it’s only like a warming blanket to keep her safe. A security net. 

 

The intimacy between them is different from when they slept with each other - less exciting, less passionate, but as powerful and strong and reassuring.

 

Then, suddenly, the magic flows freely through her body, wood and core and herself finding a perfect match. “That’s it!” she cheers, truly happy, not even checking which wand clicked with her. Insecurities finally gone, she says the words of the enchantment surely, without hesitating. A warm shimmer surrounds her for a moment, and then she knows the core is now deeply embedded within the wood.

 

The witch gives her new wand - apple, as she notices - an exploring twirl, tidying up the table in front of her. With the next swish, the books are back on the shelf. Draco’s “ _ Reparo _ ,” sets the vase back together. Hermione finds herself smiling widely at her husband.

 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he swears, beaming.  

 

A somewhat awkward pause occurs, with both of them not knowing what to do. The elation clearly dictates to do something.

 

Breaking the tension, Hermione walks around the table and gives him a simple kiss on his lips, followed by a hug. “Thank you for helping me,” she says into his chest, voice muffled by his shirt.   
  


“You’re welcome,” Draco answers and, to her pleasant surprise, hugs her tighter.

 

After standing there like this for what feels an hour, the close proximity of her wizard comes with a price - or rather: a reward - for Hermione. Slowly, arousal is spreading in her body, her nipples hardening against Draco’s chest, even though they’re fully clothed. He still has his arms wrapped around her, but now the fingertips draw small circles on her waist. Feeling bold and wanton, she experimentally rolls her hips against him and is gifted with a needy moan. 

 

She lets her hands wander over the hard planes of his body, fingers skimming the waistband of his trousers. His breathing hitches as one index traces the outline of the hard bulge that signals his arousal. She decides that is the power she strives for, pushing the bond demanding to have him come deeply inside her roughly aside. Instead, she lowers herself to her knees in front of him.

 

Her plans to explore him with her mouth are shattered when she hears a knock at the window. 

 

Over the desperate groan from Draco, she identifies the source of disturbance: an owl, belonging to Harry.

 

“I swear to Merlin, I regret the day I opened the wards for one of  _ them _ .”

 

For once, she is on the same side as him. But what if it’s important? Opening the window and accepting the parchment from the owl, she can’t suppress a noise of annoyance of her own. “Family tea in...thirty minutes,” she says with a glance at the clock in the kitchen. 

 

The tension between them broken, Draco adjusts himself discreetly. “I guess our presence is demanded?”

 

“Yes, naturally.”

 

“And here I thought  _ my _ family was overbearing.”

 

Despite Draco’s words, Hermione knows he enjoys the newfound company in his own way. Molly is simply happy to have her back under her wings and accepts Draco as a sometimes talking, but mostly frowning, appendix.

 

Arthur, George, Fleur, and the rest of the extended Weasley family need some time to adjust. No one says something to Draco or insults him directly. But they occasionally throw Hermione and Draco odd glances as if they’re trying and failing to understand the dynamics of their relationship. Though, Draco tells her, that’s okay. After all, they haven’t been exactly friends before. She wonders if the bonds allows some character traits to transfer into the other person or if Draco just has matured.

 

Ginny, after introducing her to two-year-old James, cries for almost an hour when she sees her, switching between joy and sadness all the time.

 

But, for all the friendship and hardships she has shared with Harry and Ron, she knows they won’t be be back to their usual relationship any time soon, and maybe never. Too much has changed; too many expectations have been crushed on both sides. But Hermione can’t bring herself to care about her personal development, to regret her decisions. On the other side, she can’t begrudge her friends their place of peace. The Golden Trio won’t ever be the same again. But nor will she.

 

They would all adapt.

 

* * *

 

In the late afternoon, Hermione finds herself in the Potters’ garden, contemplating the future. Baby Albus who has been born a few days ago without any complications, sleeps in her arms peacefully, releasing a content sound from time to time only newborns are capable of.

 

To Hermione, this feels like home - the lavender, the humming bees, the water, the green…the man by her side. The cottage. She lets the bond, the scenery, and the company lure her into a state of peace. A scene from a lullaby. 

 

It is  _ so  _ easy to imagine herself in such a garden, a baby in her arms, one conceived in night full of passion and love with her husband. 

 

He’d be a good father one day. Kind, but strict. Forgiving, but regal when it is important. Goofy and caring. She shakes her head, the telling tingle of the bond tricking her once again. 

 

But one thing is obvious - Draco Malfoy is a good man. It is in his actions, in his smiles, in his magic. But is their connection really more than a magical bond unfurling its magic, more than a relationship born of necessity? 

 

“Don’t get too comfortable with the babe. There’s still a war for us to fight.” 

 

“Is there really? Don’t you think sometimes that it would be better to settle down? To enjoy a quiet life here?” 

 

“Every day. But I’m still Draco Malfoy. And you’re still Hermione Granger.” 

 

“But Harry and Ron are here, and I’m an auntie now.” This sounds shallow on her lips. Her next words, not so much. “We could have a remotely normal life here.” 

 

He takes her face in his hands, tilting it up. “And you could probably be a mother in forty weeks. And, by Salazar, my male pride and the bond push me to assure that you’re swollen with my child.” His voice is magnetic, and she’s blushing like a schoolgirl at his words. ”But consider your own words, Hermione, without this bond-induced haziness. Do you want to start a family in a magical world like it is? Could you stand to raise a little witch or wizard - because there’s no way our children wouldn’t be magical, otherwise the pull wouldn’t be so vivacious - without them getting their Hogwarts letter? Without leading them through the Leaky Cauldron to muggle London? Without them growing up without a package of sweets from their Grandma Narcissa?” 

 

“No,” she whispers. She places a hand on his cheek, gazing into his eyes with hers almost blind with unshed tears. And she knows he’s right. 

 

Draco is proving that he is her husband in every meaning of the word: he’s her lover, her friend, her confidant - the one she’s been through everything with. In their case, they still have to fight for the good times, for the joy. But she knows: he’d be here. 

 

A squeaky noise breaks the overwhelming, but so exciting tension between them. “Ah, seems like Potterling two is demanding food,” Draco determines and, with surprising grace, transfers Albus into his arms. “Let’s get you inside to your mother,” he says to the baby. 

 

Hermione has to remain seated for a solid five minutes in order to calm the bond down after this domestic scene. She’s not proud to be played so easily.

 

* * *

 

Like it has become their habit, the talk over the dinner table refrains from serious topics. It helps them to establish a healthy feeling of normalcy, but they also get to know each other better.

 

“Who even got the idea to place the phoenix tattoo on the sole of your foot?” Draco remarks over his glass of Bordeaux. “It’s quite impractical. Imagine yourself on the run, meeting someone, and then, ‘Oh, wait, there’s something I’d like to show you, but we have to stop for it’.” 

 

Hermione laughs and swats Draco’s hand. “Well, it’s certainly better than having it somewhere where you’ve got to strip yourself naked to show it. On the shoulder blade, for example.” Playfully, she exposes the skin of her shoulder by flicking the strap of her top aside. 

 

“I should really search your body for hidden tattoos.” There’s heat flaring up in Draco’s eyes at those words. He calmly folds his napkin and places it on the table before standing.

 

Hermione hesitates, then tilts her head coyly. “You can try…” She has no idea what rotten impulse makes her say this. But the heat isn’t only in Draco’s eyes - it’s also between her legs. She tries to blame the wine they’ve had for dinner, or the bond, but the truth is: she wants him. Like every healthy woman wants her handsome man. A man that is her husband. A man whose magic is now brushing against hers as he pulls her to him, trailing his hands over her bare arms. The warmth between them is making her dizzy; the courage in his caresses makes her heady - and this time, there’s no rational voice in her head telling her to stop, not to give into her primal urges. 

 

And it’s glorious. Because Hermione feels like herself again. Different from before Azkaban, of course. She’s more mature. More devious (she blames Draco for that). Harder. But, on the other side, she’s comfortable in her own skin. In her unexpected relationship that has turned from unplanned to unwanted to unimaginable to live without.

* * *

 

 

At first, Hermione thinks Draco has a nightmare when she wakes due to him bolting upright. But then, she too feels what probably has caused him to wake.“The wards are shifting...what’s wrong?” 

 

“I don’t know. But it isn’t good. These are the emergency wards, slamming only into place when something happens to the family and family members are in the cottage.” She feels him shivering under her hand when she places a hand on his arm.

 

“Your mother?” 

 

“There’s no one else. She’s the only Black outside of this. Something’s happened to her.” 

 

“Do you think she’s-”

 

“No. That would feel...different. I can’t explain it, but it would be different. Still, she’s in grave danger.” 

 

Without any further discussion and knowing words wouldn’t suffice here, Hermione dresses quickly and gestures Draco to do the same. Having slept naked to relish the skin-to-skin contact, it doesn’t take them long. Only a few minutes later, they Apparate to the Potters’ doorstep. After rapping the door loudly a few times, Harry, in pajamas and sleep-ridden but with his wand brandished, opens. 

 

He instantly knows that something is amiss. “What happened?” 

 

Draco’s lips are thin, but he steps inside and speaks without hesitation. “We need your help.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm evil. I knew from the beginning of Shared Path this would be a trilogy. And even when I didn't receive as much positive feedback for Path as for Hell (and that was exactly what I was afraid of while writing a sequel), I'm quite proud of it. Fight me. There's still some plot to tell. But it will be a while until the third part is going to be uploaded - be kind and stay with me?


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